Even weeks later, the Paris attacks continue to resonate in my heart and head. I am still working through all the emotions of tragedy: disbelief, shock, sadness, fear, and now, anger. I really thought by now I would be less incensed. I expected my shield of numbness forged from the necessity to deal with the ever-present bombardment of evil to protect me better, but this is proving to be a slow burn. I think this smoldering anger will be my companion for a while.

My husband, two teenage daughters, and I just visited Paris in June, and “what if that had happened while we were there?” fortifies my empathy. The fact that this occurred in a place where I witnessed armed soldiers patrolling on foot and saw them driving the streets in open vehicles fuels my hopelessness. It was harrowing enough when less than sixteen hours before we boarded a plane for home, a man with terrorist motives beheaded his boss and attacked a factory in Lyon, and a bomb threat triggered the evacuation of a terminal in Charles de Gaulle Airport. It was by giving it over to God that we got on our plane.

But those events pale in comparison to the carnage of the November attacks. I am so angry for the people of France, but if I am honest, my outrage lingers on because of what this means for my daughters. This is the first terror attack they have watched unfold in real time in a place where they have been. We all are taken aback remembering our dinners in restaurants open to the bustling streets, and now picturing those places as targets of violence. This is the first time my daughters will remember an act of terrorism instead of recalling a history lesson about it. The gossamer bubble of their innocence has dissolved that much more and their own protective shields have begun to inch their way up.

My oldest is a senior in high school and currently applying to colleges. Her top choices are in Boston, Washington, DC, and New York City. A month ago I saw these choices as exciting, adventurous, and full of opportunity. Now I am just reminded anew of the Boston Marathon bombing, the plane crashing into the Pentagon, and the Twin Towers tumbling down. Just like that, the forgetfulness born from time has evaporated.

I mourn that Syrian refugees are hindered and dying in their flights from their nightmare conditions, and my head whirls that my daughter’s college dreams are tarnished with the harsh worry of terrorism. Basic survival and rarefied dreams are all victims at the feet of terrorism. My thoughts ping back and forth between the global and the personal. The unfairness and inequity staggers me.

But just like we boarded that plane to come home, I will support my daughter as she forges ahead with her plans. In reality, my protective shield is made of more than numbness, it is tempered with hope and faith: knowing that bad things can happen, but God will hold us close through them. I have to continue living my life and encouraging my daughter to do the same. I can’t help myself. And let’s face it, danger not only comes from afar, but it is homegrown, too. We only have to think about the shootings at the Oregon community college and Virginia Tech to know it’s true. If I needed assurances of absolute safety for my family and me to leave the house, we would be hermits.

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So it is with awareness that we will continue to pray for the people of Paris and Syria, seek out ways to help them, and count our blessings; and it is with faith and hope my daughter will complete her college applications. But because God helps those who help themselves, my daughter may be looking into a matriculation choice that is not located in a city on the terrorist hit list. Who knows what May will bring when it is time to sign her final letter of intent? We’ll expect the best, plan for the worst, and through it all we are going with God.

-Ellen

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